


you're neck and neck or cheek to cheek

by punkpadfoot



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: First Kiss, M/M, Pre-Canon, Underage Drinking, the Big Gay Feeling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-21
Updated: 2015-12-21
Packaged: 2018-05-08 02:07:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5479319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/punkpadfoot/pseuds/punkpadfoot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kent’s always been fairly affectionate, but this thing with Jack is something else entirely.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you're neck and neck or cheek to cheek

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bienenalster (pinkspider)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pinkspider/gifts).



> for bienenalster, who asked for jack/parse that didn't involve clouds of doom hanging five inches over their heads. happy holidays! and thanks to idril for reading this over, and sarah for just being sarah.
> 
> title from 'you are jeff' by richard siken, because i've got to sneak a little tragedy in where i can.
> 
> **cw for brief internalized homophobia and ableist language in the form of two bros calling each other dumb.** i didn't feel that these things were present enough to warrant warning tags, but just a heads up.

_o._

 

Kent’s always been fairly affectionate, ever since he was a kid. You know—touchy. Not like with everyone or whatever, but his mom, his sister. People he likes, the people he’s closest to. Family. And to be fair, it’s hard not to be, when he’s got a parent that’s always squeezing his shoulders, kissing his forehead with practically ritualistic regularity, giving him long and tight hugs after a game, whether he scored twice or spent half his time in the penalty box. If you’re around something like that long enough, it becomes the norm, and that’s been a constant in his life for so long that it would’ve been more surprising if it hadn’t rubbed off on him.

There’s a comfort in that kind of physical closeness, in letting someone into your space. In them letting you into theirs. There’s something to be said about the safety that that kind of trust affords; Kent’s just not quite sure what it is.

He does know that he’s sixteen years old and he still beams when his mom smooths his hair back out of his face and rubs imaginary spots of dirt off the end of his nose with her thumb. He’s been embarrassed of his sister plenty of times, but never for the way that, when she and his mom finally made the trek up to Montreal, she stuck to his side like glue, as if it’d been years rather than weeks since she’d last seen him. He loves it—loves them. Misses them and the easy closeness all the time, because he’s just like them.

There’s Jack, but—well.

This thing with Jack? It’s something else entirely.

 

_i._

 

Kent knows who Jack is when he meets him. While he’s more of a fan of idolizing the type’s of players he wants to play like (smaller, and fast, and smart, rather than the brunt force of skill that Bad Bob Zimmermann is renowned for), he’d have to be living under a rock to play hockey and not know the Zimmermann name, to not feel any sort of excitement when he learns he’ll be playing with his kid in Montreal. It’s not like a big deal or anything, it’s just kind of cool. He doesn’t have any expectations about it, or about Jack.

He doesn’t have any expectations, and Jack still manages to surprise him anyways.

For one, Jack doesn’t play like his dad. There are similarities, sure, the resemblance extending beyond the fact that they look so much alike. Jack moves with the same confidence, which makes his presence feel larger than some of their older teammates, but without any unnecessary physicality. He’s disciplined, and quicker than Kent would have thought.

And like, another thing—he’s awkward as hell. ‘Shy’ and ‘quiet’ are probably the nicer words for it, but the first conversation Kent has with him would have been fucking painful if it weren’t for the fact that Kent could probably talk to just about anyone about just about anything within the realm of reason. Where Kent is easy words and easier smiles, Jack is stilted off the ice, maybe a little nervous, even. It’s not a _bad_ thing, just not what he would have thought for someone who’s already the center of attention when the NHL draft is such a far off thing that it seems weird to even think about yet.

The third thing, probably related in some ways or others to the first two, is that Jack is a fucking dick. A little rude, maybe a bit stuck up, quick to snap on the ice and tear someone a new one for not keeping up. 

It should be a deterrent, maybe. Kent knows that he himself isn’t always nice, but there’s a tact and subtlety to it that Jack clearly lacks. Kent wants to be liked; Jack doesn’t really seem to care about making friends.

Which, like, sucks for him, honestly, considering after a few practices, Kent figures Jack’s probably the best on the team, vastly different from Kent’s playing style but the only real match in skill. And to Kent, that means they’re going to be friends, whether Jack likes it or not.

Jack’s stubborn, sure. He huffs and sticks out his chin when things don’t go his way, and gives Kent clipped, one-worded answers when Kent is trying to get a conversation rolling. Kent’s not stupid. He can tell when someone has no interest in him.

But, Kent’s also relentless—and the fourth surprise about Jack Zimmermann, between the way his one-worded responses slowly shift to laughter and the way he starts to grin at Kent _off_ the ice, is that he actually gives in to it.

He sometimes acts put-upon, as if more than anything he’s resigned himself to the fact that he’s not getting rid of Kent anytime soon, but it’s still a victory in Kent’s book.

 

_ii._

 

Kent kicks off his shoes in the Zimmermanns’ doorway because the walk from his billet family’s house had been rainy and muddy. The bottoms of his socks are wet, too, and he pulls a face when he peels them off as well. When he looks back up, Alicia is standing in front of him with a frown and a towel.

“You should have called,” she says, and he knows he’s being scolded but that she’s not mad at him. “Robert and I could have picked you up. We just got back from the store.” She takes his hat, which is wet, right off his head and hangs it on the hook by the door. Her fingers are soft and warm when she pushes back the wet hair that’s plastered itself to his forehead, tutting her disapproval.

It makes him miss his mom in a way that hurts, so he ducks away with a laugh and takes the towel to scrub at his hair. From beneath it, he says, “It’s fine. Builds character or something.”

“Oh, you’re a real character,” she agrees, taking the towel back when he’s finished with it. “Jack is downstairs. Tell him his mother says to get you something else to wear and to make sure you’ve got a ride next time he invites you over in the rain.” 

She shoos him off with the promise of dinner in an hour (“Although maybe that’s more of a threat—Robert’s cooking.”), and he finds Jack sunk into the couch, smashing buttons on his video game controller as Luigi goes flying off the course. He pauses, makes to toss Kent the other controller, but catches sight of his wet clothes first.

“Your mom says you’re a shitty friend,” Kent tells him. Okay, so he’s paraphrasing.

Jack rolls his eyes. “I’m sure. I told you we could pick you up. There’s clean clothes in the basket in there if you want to toss those in the dryer.”

Kent waves him off the same as he’d done Alicia, and when he comes back from the laundry room and sits next to Jack on the couch, he’s in a pair of sweats that are definitely too long. Kent’s knee presses into Jack’s, and their elbows bump as he settles in. Jack passes him a controller and doesn’t move away to make more space.

“Michelle’s parents are going to Chicago next weekend, to visit her sister at school,” Kent says as he skids Yoshi’s car into the lava pit for a third time, a little punch of annoyance to his words unrelated to what he’s saying. Jack’s already lapped him once. “She invited us over. Think she’s having a party.”

“She invited us, or invited you?” 

Kent isn’t sure why it would make a difference, but he pauses the game to flip open his phone, reading verbatim, “She said, _hi, Kent_ , and I said, _hey, Michelle_ , and she said, _my parents are going to Chicago next weekend. I’m going to have some people over. You should come_. And then she said, _you can bring people too_ , and I said, _cool, I’ll see if Jack’s down_. Should I keep going?” He doesn’t, setting his phone down and taking the game off pause.

Jack doesn’t say anything until he’s won the race, stretching his legs out in front of him and moving his knee away from Kent’s.

“Sure, we should go.” And then, “She’s nice, eh? Pretty.”

The back of Kent’s neck is suddenly very hot, but he laughs at Jack anyways. “You like her?”

Jack gives him a strange look, his brows furrowed. Blinks at him before answering like it’s obvious, “She likes you.”

That stutters any other teasing on the tip of his tongue to a halt. He’s not sure if that’s true. Not sure what he’d do if it were. His ears are very hot now too.

Jack gives him another beat of silence that Kent knows he’s making awkward before asking, in a way that makes Kent think that Jack thinks he’s being weird about this, “What, you don’t like her?”

Kent isn’t sure why he’s staring at the screen so intently—choosing between Bowser’s Castle and Rainbow Road isn’t a life or death decision. He picks Bowser’s Castle and echoes back Jack’s earlier sentiment: “She’s nice.” He hesitates for a moment, then adds, “Reminds me of my sister, though.”

He doesn’t have to see Jack miss the start of the race to know that he’s still watching Kent, probably with that same look on his face. He can feel it.

It feels like forever, but it’s probably only ten seconds before Jack presses his knee back against Kent’s and says, “Start over, asshole. I wasn’t ready.”

 

_iii._

 

Kent is drunk for the second time in his life, sipping down Malibu and pineapple juice out of a red solo cup through a silly straw in the kitchen at a party with a girl a whole head shorter than him. Her nose crinkles when she laughs and she keeps touching him at the junction where his wrist and his hand meet. It’s okay, but he keeps finding reasons to move: an imaginary itch on his nose, a quick readjustment of his hat. She doesn’t seem to be offended, or to even notice, really. And it’s not—it’s not anything against her, really. He doesn’t know what it is.

Or, well, he does; when he pushes off the counter to lean into her space, she looks at his mouth. He’s looking over her shoulder at the commercial print still life on the wall.

_I really wish I wanted to kiss you_ , is what he thinks.

“Hey,” is what he says instead. “Have you seen Jack?”

Kent’s steps from the kitchen to the sitting room are wobbly, a haphazard meandering that has him laughing at himself when he makes to sit but more accurately falls back onto Jack, who’s seated on the end of the couch. He’s strangely aware of the steady pounding of his heart in his chest as he shifts, flinging an arm around Jack’s shoulders to steady himself. When he forces himself to glance at him—their faces are very close together—Jack is staring right at him. His eyes are very blue, and very bright, like maybe he’s got a joke that Kent isn’t quite in on yet. The way the corner of his mouth is slowly inching upwards certainly indicates so.

Jack raises his eyebrows, but Kent doesn’t know the answering punchline, so he looks away. Someone has their camera phone out, so he knocks their heads together and grins.

The back of Kent’s shirt is riding up. Jack presses the pads of his fingers into the notches of Kent’s spine where the skin is exposed, and he doesn’t move them for a very long time.

 

_iv._

 

He’s having one of those days, where he feels weird and he’s being weird and he knows it, but no amount of self-awareness can make him stop. Jack had picked him up for practice, too early as usual, guaranteeing they’d be there at least fifteen minutes before anyone else. Kent doesn’t mind that, likes to be the first on the ice and last off, but there’s a ball of nervous energy in him that keeps throwing itself up from the pit of his stomach to the back of his throat. He doesn’t know what to do besides talk all the way through it, an endless stream of chatter punctuated by laughter that comes either too loud or too late. 

Jack, to his credit, either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care, lets Kent talk his ear off all the way into the locker room. In there, it’s very empty and very quiet; the nervous energy does another loop around his insides before settling right below his ribs, and he finds he’s run out of things to say.

When Jack sits on the bench and leans forward to begin to unlace his boots, Kent becomes very aware of two things: the steady thump of his heart in his chest, not fast or erratic but insistent and noticeable, and the spot of hair at the crown of Jack’s head that’s sticking in the wrong direction. The first thing is weird, and the second only weird because he notices it, not unusual in itself—he’s never seen Jack comb his hair with anything other than his fingers.

Kent wants to do that now, reach out and smooth it down, run the tips of his fingers down the back of Jack’s scalp, gentle in a way he’s not sure he’s ever been or actually knows how to be. That’s weird, too. That’s definitely—it’s weird.

But he wants to be, or at least to try. His fingers flex and his palms itch with it, and he rubs his hands against his pants in an attempt to wipe it away. He’s got no clue what’s going on in his head, or in his chest or his palms. Or his mouth, for that matter—when he clears his throat, his “hey” still comes out sounding funny, a little off, like it knows it shouldn't be bringing Jack's attention to whatever kind of freaky shit is possessing him right now but is going to go ahead and do it anyways. 

Jack looks up, fingers still tangled in his shoelaces. It must dawn on him, both retrospectively but also in the moment, that Kent’s not quite himself, a slow shift in his gaze from expectant to amused when Kent doesn’t say anything else. He huffs a laugh, sounds incredibly put upon when he says, “What, Parse?”

And Kent leans down and kisses him.

It feels abrupt because it definitely is—or maybe it’s not completely so, because as much as Kent thinks that he definitely wasn’t intending to do this, not now or not ever, once it’s happening it seems pretty clear that all signs have been pointing in this direction ever since he’d gotten into Jack’s car that morning. Maybe even longer. 

(He thinks about Jack’s fingers on his back and their knees pressed together and the way that, lately, Jack keeps smiling like he knows something Kent doesn’t. Definitely even longer.)

Kent’s can feel the spot where Jack missed while shaving, just below his ear, because his hand is cupping Jack’s jaw. He can feel the way that Jack is holding his breath, because his other hand is planted firmly against Jack’s chest. He knows that Jack’s lips are chapped and waxy from Carmex, because his lips are on Jack’s lips, and something about that thought is so heady and ridiculous that he feels laughter start to bubble up in his throat even though this is decidedly not funny.

It’s stupid and a little wild. Not that kissing is some sort of extreme act (although he’d be lying if he said he ever done it—Mandy Mitchell in the fifth grade didn’t count, when she’d been the one to do it anyways), but it’s not _what_ it is. It’s _who_ it is. And it’s what it _says_ about Kent.

Kent’s nose is pressed uncomfortably into the side of Jack’s, and his eyes are closed, and of all the things he notices in this moment, the one that’s most obvious is that Jack is holding very, very still.

The realization makes his ears go pink and hot, and he stands suddenly, just as quick as he’d been to lean down. He looks at anywhere but Jack for the moment—the rows of lockers and his half open duffle bag and his socks with the hole at his toe that had been driving him crazy since he put them on this morning—and when he finally looks, he isn’t sure what to expect. Maybe he’s weirded out. Maybe he’s grossed out, honestly.

Maybe he’s mad. The thought hadn’t occurred to him until now, that a possible outcome of all this nonsense raging inside him would culminate in Jack being angry, but when it does the rush of everything else jangling around in his insides is settled by the heavy thud of fear that lands in his gut. Maybe if Kent could, like, use his words for something other than chirping and wheedling, Jack wouldn’t have given a shit that he’s—whatever. Gay. Jack’s not an idiot, a lot less nasty than some of the guys on their team. 

That doesn’t mean he’s not about to be swallowing his teeth for pulling shit like that.

When he looks, Jack is sitting up straighter, although his shoes are still only half untied. His eyes are narrowed, a slight crease in the center of his eyebrows. It’s intent, like the look he gets the last minutes of a tied game, and nothing like that at all.

Kent can’t read him, can only meet his eyes for a moment before looking over his shoulder instead. He opens his mouth to say something and, for once in his life, can’t think of anything.

He doesn’t have to. Not a second later, the door to the locker room slams open. The quiet is replaced by the noises of a couple more of their teammates filing into the room, and when Kent looks back, Jack’s no longer looking at him.

 

_v._

 

Kent skates like shit during practice. The heavy feeling hadn’t left his stomach even after Jack had left to hit the ice first, as usual, and Kent carried it out of the locker room with him. That in itself was frustrating, being unable to leave it behind, and the combination makes him sloppy, unfocused. He feels hyperaware of where Jack is on the ice and not much else—he doesn’t connect on easy passes, fucks up a simple drill twice, and at the end of it all gets pulled aside to get chewed out by their coach.

By the time he makes it back into the locker room, it’s cleared out, which means he’ll have to call for a ride, but he’d been banking on it being unlikely that he’d be getting back into Jack’s car anytime today anyways. Some of the tension eases out of his shoulders and he rolls them to help it along, changing quickly and digging his phone out of his bag.

His head is ducked, pressing through his contacts to find the house number for his billet family when Jack says, “Hey,” and Kent jerks up, surprised—he thought Jack was gone, hadn’t heard the door open. 

Jack’s giving him that weird look again, like he’s sizing him up. He must find whatever he’s looking for, because something in it changes and he steps forward.

“Look,” Kent says, quickly. His fingers hurt, because his hands are clenched tightly at his sides, and he shakes them loose. He’s not about to _start_ a fight. “Listen, I didn’t—” mean it? That’s a lie. Mean _to_? A little closer to the truth.

It doesn’t really matter, anyways, because Jack leans in and presses their mouths together.

It’s briefer than earlier, quick, and softer than any touch he was expecting. Their noses don’t bump as awkwardly because Jack’s got a better angle and better foresight or something. When he goes to pull away, Kent’s hand flies to Jack’s shoulder, gripping tight on the fabric of his hoodie, and yanks him back. Their teeth clack, and Jack snorts in Kent’s face and has to straighten up. The shoulder beneath Kent’s hand is shaking, and when Kent looks up, Jack’s eyes are bright, eyebrows raised in some mix of amusement and delight, and he’s laughing silently.

“You looked like you were going to die,” Jack tells him, and then he loses it.

Kent’s face is burning but he feels the stupid grin slowly stretching across his face and quickly pulls it back, tongue in cheek as he takes a deep breath and says, “Shut the fuck up, I did not.” 

“You did,” Jack says, practically wheezing, and Kent lets go of his shoulder, shoving him back. 

“You’re fucking dumb,” Kent tells him, and ducks down to dig around in his duffle bag, effectively hiding his grin. “It’s not funny, you dick.”

Jack slowly stops laughing, but his mouth is still ticked up at the corner, teasing. “Come on,” he says, and nudges Kent’s shoe with his own, stepping on his toes. “Why are you mad?”

“Because you’re a dick,” Kent repeats, but he’s smiling too despite himself. He pulls the strap of his bag over his shoulder, runs his hand through his hair. He can feel his heart in his chest again and for once it doesn’t feel like a bad thing—it’s still racing, but with the absence of dread eating away at the pit of his stomach, it’s something else. Excitement. Anticipation. “You let me play like shit all practice for no reason because I spent the whole time wondering if Bad-fucking-Bob taught you how to throw a punch. I thought you left and then came back because you decided, oh, you know what? I should probably kick his ass.” 

He pushes past Jack and heads to the door, and he laughs a little at himself, because all of this is funny, in that way that everything is kind of funny when you think your best friend is going to break your nose and he kisses you instead.

Jack falls in step beside him back in the parking lot, and he bumps his elbow against Kent’s, says, “Well, I guess that makes you fucking dumb too, eh?” Kent thinks that maybe he should point out that no, that’s actually quite a logical step for his train of thought to take, that it probably happens to a lot of boys who kiss other boys, but when he turns to tell Jack this, the look Jack is giving him is soft and serious. It’s not new—not the first time Kent’s seeing it. He just never knew what it meant.

So he smiles. Rolls his eyes and digs his elbow hard into Jack’s ribs, getting a huff of annoyance out of him. Instead, he says, “Yeah, guess so.”


End file.
